


There's Something About John

by MuseRuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, But it's for a disguise, Crossdressing Sherlock, Gay Sherlock, Humor, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuseRuse/pseuds/MuseRuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John refuses to reveal details about his new love interest, Sherlock investigates. What he uncovers may forever change the lives of London's favorite detective and his faithful blogger. Rated M for future chapters, just to be on the safe side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I can't concentrate with the racket you're causing in here, Sherlock!” At that moment, a cloud of blue smoke roiled from the pot boiling on the stove. John gagged as the smell hit his nostrils. “Oh. Oh God, Sherlock. What the hell is that?”

I rolled my eyes at him and tapped the space bar on the laptop, pausing the heavy metal music pouring from the speakers. The silence was almost deafening. 

“Since when do you listen to anything but classical music?”

“It's for a case. _Obviously._ This album was on repeat at the crime scene. There may be a connection between the lyrics and the murder. I had to replicate the volume to fully immerse myself in all the evidence.”

“And the goo on the stove?” John gestured to the offending appliance.

“Unimportant. Not the murder weapon.” I shrugged and typed a few quick notes into the spreadsheet open on my computer. 

“How do you know for sure? You haven't even examined whatever the hell it is you've boiled... and ruined our best saucepan, by the way.”

“Simple, really. The fumes would have rendered us both unconscious if that mixture had been used in the murder of Mr Evans. Lucky for us, I suppose, although now I need a new hypothesis.” I began to run through the details of the crime scene, waiting for something to stand out.

“A new... you mean... Sherlock! You could have _killed_ us! What is wrong with you?” John clenched his fists at his sides, fuming.

“Oh, don't be so dramatic, John.” I sighed.

He stared at me, his mouth pressed into a hard line. “Just... clean this up, will you? I have to take another shower. I'm not going on a date smelling like Blue Surprise.”

Date...“This is your second date in four days. The nervous shuffle in your feet indicates that this is a second date with the same woman. What was her name... Mel?”

“I'm not discussing this with you!” Before I could inquire further, John ended the conversation by heading towards the bathroom. I shrugged and turned back to my experiment. 

When John reappeared a few minutes later, it was his cologne that first alerted me to his presence. I took a deep breath and let the woodsy aroma play over my senses. The fragrance was expensive – well, expensive for John’s wallet, anyway – and I knew from previous romantic engagements that he reserved this particular bottle for very special occasions. Usually withheld for third dates or if the woman was quite out of his league.

“She must be very special, this Mel. You’re sparing no expense on her and you haven’t even left the flat.” I looked up from the slide I’d been studying and my breath caught in my throat. I was always unprepared for the reaction my body had when catching glimpses of Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, in all of his towel-clad glory. My brain was conditioned well enough that I was generally able to suppress any attraction towards my flatmate during our everyday discourse; however, a seemingly more primal part always took over when significant layers of clothing were removed. Tricky things, hormones. They never seem to obey.

John said something, I wasn’t sure what exactly, as I was preoccupied watching the shadows from the faded light filtering in the kitchen window shift over his taught skin, still pink from the overly warm shower. I was plotting the distance between freckles when John’s voice broke through my reverie.

“Sherlock.”

The annoyance in his forming of my name caught my attention and I shifted my eyes to meet his gaze. His cheeks held a darker hue of rose and I pondered this. The concentration of coloring could be the result of his face seeing more water contact than the rest of his body, but that would be highly unlikely. Perhaps a blush, then. Yes, this was plausible since he had caught me staring at him. John cleared his throat and as my attention focused back on my surroundings, I saw that he was glaring at me. 

“Stop deducing me, you twit.”

“I wasn’t deducing, I was…”

John interrupted me, “You were deducing me. You did that thing…with your face.”

I gaped at him. “The thing with my face? I don’t do a thing with my face. That’s a very lazy way to speak. It’s this exact lack of creativity and ability to bring color to a description that makes your blogs so very dull to read.”

He laughed. “You’re doing it right now!”

“Perhaps you should regale me with some information about this woman you’re seeing tonight. Is Mel short for Melanie? Melissa? Melody? Melinda? Distract me.”

“Told you. We're not talking about this. Every time I meet someone, you pry and pry and pry until you snap apart the whole thing.” I frowned and he continued. “Mel is… Mel. Look, I’m just not ready to talk about it, okay?” He blushed deeper before turning and leaving the room. 

“Fine,” I shouted after him. “I’ll just sit here and postulate about this potential shrew, since you’ll give me no information to go on!”

“Get off it, Sherlock!” John’s shout was muffled through the wall.

John reentered a few minutes later and I took in his outfit. Button-down shirt, freshly ironed, no tie, khaki trousers and loafers; dressed well enough for a nice restaurant, comfortable enough for extended sitting. Dinner and a film, then.

“Have a nice time at the cinema.”

“Yeah, sure. I won’t even bother with how you figured that out. Don’t wait up, Mum.” John shot me a sarcastic smile before leaving the flat.

An hour for dinner and two hours for the cinema left plenty of time for snooping. I hurried to the window and watched John enter a cab and drive away. I waited a moment for the car to reach the end of the road and turn away. _Ah, the game is on!_

I took the stairs to John’s room two at a time and surveyed my surroundings to find a place to start my search. There had to be something, anything, to give me some insight into Mel. I opened the drawer to his nightstand and withdrew a small stack of well-read magazines. I flipped through these out of interest to what makes John tick. I made notes and filed some relevant and quite surprising information away into my Mind Palace before replacing the contents and sliding the drawer back into place. 

I got down on all fours and peeked beneath John’s bed but found nothing but dust bunnies and three socks. I sat back on my heels and looked for my next target. Wardrobe, dresser, or… Ah! Hamper! Springing to my feet, I crossed the room in two long strides. John’s dirty laundry stared up at me. Perhaps there would be a bit of evidence forgotten in a pocket or two. Jumpers and undershirts and a particularly intriguing pair of bright red pants were all tossed over my shoulder and onto the dusty wood floor. Finally, I reached a pair of trousers. I reached into first one pocket and then another but was only rewarded with pocket lint. I discarded this pair to the pile behind me. I fished out a pair of jeans and heard the tell-tale crinkle of paper before I even put my hand in the pocket. I retrieved the receipt and smoothed out the wrinkles. 

“Thanks a Latte from Mocha Madness Coffee Shop and Confectionery,” I read aloud to the empty room. I scanned the rest of the receipt. Between the coffee and pastries, John had spent nearly fifteen pounds. My eyes came to rest on a handwritten note at the bottom of the paper: ‘Text me sometime, cutie. xxMel’ and beneath that was a phone number scrawled in the same writing. I slipped the receipt into my pocket and returned John’s laundry to the basket. I scanned the room to make sure everything was back in its place. The last thing I wanted was for John to know I was on the case. 

Back in the kitchen, I placed Mel’s note beneath the microscope. The slightly rounded slope of the letters indicated female, but the varied pressure and inconsistent spacing suggested male but surely indicative of the haste in which the note was scrawled. The time elapsed from receiving the receipt and the commencement of their courtship indicated that John had spent nearly a week contemplating contacting her before acting on it, however, the pocket from which I retrieved that paper belonged to jeans worn just days before. So, he was holding onto the note for sentimental purposes. There must be something special about her to change John’s habits regarding cologne application and the abruptness of the second date. 

I considered the note for a few minutes longer. I felt compelled to find the faults of John’s companions so as to cushion the nearly inevitable fall when they would leave him. He was the kindest, most honest person I knew and I hated to see his heart break. Surely it was better to know the relationships were doomed before becoming too invested in them. Secure in my assumptions of knowing John better than anyone else, I would find the fault in Mel. I would save John Watson’s heart. 

The note was still face up on the table when John returned home from his date. An hour previous, I had resumed my research into Mr Evans’ demise and forgotten to return the slip to John’s laundry.

“Told you not to wait up,” he quipped as he entered the kitchen. He came to an abrupt stop and I watched as his eyes darted to the receipt. “No. Sherlock, no. Please don’t do this. I asked you to leave it alone.”

He sank down into a chair. “You’re going to ruin this one, aren’t you? Every time, Sherlock! Every time I find someone, you pick it apart and find some flaw and you blow it completely out of proportion! So, let me have it. What major revelation have you made while I was gone?” 

John kept his eyes glued to the receipt, refusing to make eye contact with me. His face was sullen, not angry as I had expected. He bit at his top lip and his hands nervously smoothed wrinkles from the thighs of his trousers. I knit my eyebrows together, perplexed by his actions. I had been prepared for anger or at the least, annoyance. John looked… sad, worried, and a bit heartbroken. What had gone wrong? I hadn’t revealed anything yet. I leaned back in my chair and brought my fingers to a steeple beneath my chin.

“I have deduced very little about Mel thus far. Though, I have gained quite a bit of insight into how much and how quickly you seem to like her. I’m just worried that you’re throwing yourself at her. You might get hurt. You are no help to me on cases when you are grieving for a relationship gone sour. I intend to go out for a coffee tomorrow…”

John’s head snapped up and he implored me, first with his eyes, and then with his words. “Please, Sherlock. I’m begging you here. Let it go. Stop investigating Mel. If you care about me at all, as my friend, stay far away from that coffee shop.” He searched my face, fervently. “Promise me.”

“Yes,” I replied. Of course I was still going to that shop, but I concealed my intent, doing my best to keep my features blank. He nodded, satisfied with my response.

“Right. I’m going to bed.” He collected the paper and slid it into his pocket. I watched him retreat from the kitchen before I made for my own room. I planned to wait until John had left for work the following morning before beginning the legwork portion of my investigation into The Mysterious Mel.

The next morning, I woke well before John. Normally, I would don a dressing gown and play my violin in the study, but I wanted to avoid any interaction with John just in case his paranoia would cause him to see my true plans for the day. When John finally awoke, I tracked his movement throughout the flat using the sounds of his drowsy steps on the wooden floors. He had slept in, so he skipped the shower, moving straight on to a cup of tea and some toast. When at last I heard him clod down the stairs to the street, I sprang from my bed. 

I showered, shaved and dressed in some casual street clothes, deciding to leave my beloved suits in the wardrobe. I was going undercover, after all. I examined my outfit in the full length mirror: jeans, trainers, a blue v-neck shirt and a brown cardigan. I nodded at my reflection. As I left the flat, I reached for my long, flowing coat out of habit. I stopped and put it back on the rack. The coat would draw too much attention, especially as the morning was warm enough for just my cardigan. 

A short cab ride later brought me to a quaint little street in Soho. I paid the cabbie and surveyed my surroundings. A bookshop, a pub, and a couple of restaurants lined the way. I quickly spotted Mocha Madness and made my way across the street. Bells on the door jingled as I pushed my way inside. 

I stopped dead in my tracks. My senses were suddenly overwhelmed. Roasted coffee beans mingled with the decadently sweet aroma of baking apple strudels. Visually, I was stunned by the breathtaking beauty of the baristas. The all-male crew sported matching black t-shirts with a stylized M/M logo matching the decal on the door.  Their shirts seemed to be painted onto their well-toned torsos and the dark color served only to highlight their tanned skin. One of the men stepped from behind the counter to deliver a steaming cup of coffee to a waiting patron. My breath caught in my chest as my eyes worked him over, noting how his jeans clung to all the right places. 

I finally regained enough control over my faculties to swallow the lump in my throat and make my way to an empty seat near the window. I worked to steady my breathing. _That really came out of nowhere_ , I thought to myself. I partitioned my physical desires away and focused instead on my goal. I took in details of the little shop, carefully avoiding the wait staff. The walls were a sunny shade of yellow and the wooden counter at the back was painted a burnt orange and behind that, a two meter long blackboard with descriptions and prices was suspended above the espresso machines. The cash register was adorned with a smattering of stickers of all shapes and sizes, all of which were rainbows. 

“Ah!” I muttered aloud to myself as the pieces clicked into place. A gay coffee shop, of course. That explained the… pleasing… uniforms on the staff. I tried to fit Mel into this puzzle. Was there a Ladies’ Night with female servers? She had obviously waited on John while he was here. Why had John stopped at this particular coffee shop? I spun a few theories around before dismissing each one. I was completely oblivious to the man standing next to my table until he cleared his throat.

“Sir? What would you like to order?” his voice rung out, sugar to my ears. I met his gaze and he awarded me with a flash of dazzling white teeth. His shaggy, mahogany hair was meticulously styled and he wore a braided leather bracelet on his wrist. Damn, there went my ability to breathe again. _Get it under control, Sherlock!_

“Uh, um, coffee. Black,” I managed to stutter. 

“Anything else? Croissant? Pastry?” I shook my head. “Okay, hon. My name’s Mel if you need anything else, okay? Just give a shout.”

Mel turned and sauntered back to the bar. Mel. _Mel._ Could be a coincidence. Had to be a coincidence. John isn’t gay. Bisexual, maybe? I ran through a list of John’s most recent girlfriends for any other androgynous names: Rachel, Lydia, Tessa, Michelle… No, all other names were almost certainly female. 

Mel returned with my coffee and placed it on the table in front of me.

“Say, Mel, this might be a shot in the dark… but do you know a John Watson? About this tall,” I mimed John’s height with my hand. “Wears a lot of jumpers?”

Mel’s eyes lit up and he grinned ear to ear. “You’re Sherlock, aren’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Ah-ha! John sent me a text last night saying you would probably show up here! You’re a sneaky thing, you! And after you promised him you would stay away…” Mel clicked his tongue and frowned at me. “He tried to get me to call in today, but I told him that if you were half as smart as he made you out to be… Well, you’d figure out what kind of shop he was frequenting with or without me here.”

I stared at my coffee, completely flabbergasted. Mel chuckled and patted my arm.

“That cup’s on the house. I’ll leave you to your _Mind Palace_.”

I heard giggling from the direction of the bar and with my peripheral vision, I witnessed the whole of the staff whispering and looking in my direction. My phone chimed from the front pocket of my jeans.

‘ _Shit! We’ll talk about this as soon as I get home. –JW’_

‘ _Yes. –SH’_

I abandoned the untouched coffee and returned to Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing from Sherlock's POV is exhausting! My other story alternated POV... but I'm determined to stick this out!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. :)

“Ah. Perfect. Of course.” John draped his coat onto the hook near the door as he entered the flat. “Why wouldn’t the wall be covered in pictures of my ex-girlfriends? No surprise there at all.” 

He stood in front of the sofa and studied the placement of the pictures pinned to a map of London. John raised his hand and traced a few strands of yarn connecting one of the numerous women to her corresponding pins. I watched his actions from where I sat perched in my armchair. I was curious to see if John could discern the pattern from the information presented to him. John stepped back until his calves brushed the coffee table. He brought a hand to his mouth and idly chewed a nail.

“So,” he began slowly. “The blue yarn marks where I met each woman, and the red yarn is for each date.” I made an affirming noise in answer. He continued, “But, I don’t seem to understand what this marking on some of their pictures means…” He turned to look at me for the first time since arriving home. 

“Come on, it should be obvious, John. What do they each have in common?” I questioned. He stared at me with a blank look affixed to his face, and shook his head. “What did you _do_ with each of them that you didn’t do with the others?”

He knit his brows together and after a moment a blush spread across his cheeks. “Jesus, Sherlock! How can you possibly know who I did or didn’t sleep with?”

“A combination of things, really: duration of date, frequency of emails exchanged, status updates on various social media sites from each woman on the day following said date. There are also the various behaviors you exhibit, which can be quite amusing. Would you like me to expand on those?” I gave him a twisted smile.

“No. God, no. Okay, now that I know ‘what,’ how about the ‘why?’ Why is there a detailed diagram of my love life on the wall of our flat?” 

I left the comfort of my chair and joined him in front of the sofa. “Math. Averages.” I pointed to the first woman in the chronological chain and then to the next. “The time period between the cessation of one relationship and the commencement of the next averages 17.983 days. Combine that data with the frequency with which said relationships are… consummated… gives you a rather impressive ratio, at least at first.” I paused for a moment and studied John’s face. He was frozen in a stoic pose, his emotions hidden as he stared at the map. “Before introducing any new variables, the decline of sexual activity contained in your more recent relationships might seem a bit puzzling, but not overly alarming. However,” I leaned forward and plucked a lone picture from its place to the side of the map. John’s eyes followed my movements and he swallowed deeply as I pinned Mel’s picture to the map and attached his yarn accordingly. “When we add in the missing variable, we see the reason for the decline. Something has changed: you.”

John was quiet for a minute as he studied the photo of Mel. “I’m not gay,” he said, softly.

“John,” I began but he quickly interrupted me.

“At least, I don’t think I am. Hell, here I am, at this time in my life and I don’t even feel like I know myself anymore.” Exhausted, he sank onto the couch and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Existential crisis: that’s me.”

I sat next to him and placed my hand on his arm. I felt his muscles flex at my touch and breathing suddenly became a difficult task for me. I retracted my hand and made the decision to comfort him verbally, instead. “John, a lot of people struggle with this very situation. In fact, I read an article this afternoon that focused solely on men your age coming to terms with their sexual identity. Research. Dry, too many tacky analogies for my taste, but informative none the less.”

He chuckled, his eyes still hidden behind his hands. “Of course you’d have to research it. You’ve probably never had to struggle with this… whatever it is that you are.”

“Gay,” I said.

John dropped his hands into his lap and his mouth gaped open in surprise. “Really? I didn’t think you’d ever… been with anyone.”

“That is a different matter, all together. The knowledge of who I would be physically attracted to – should I ever allow myself such distraction – and the fact that I have not acted on it are not intertwined. Knowledge does not indicate practical experience, nor require it. I feel confident that I could pilot a helicopter, based solely on the information stored in my Mind Palace, regardless of the fact that I lack the actual experience.”

He nodded slowly. “Uh-huh, I see…No, I don’t see.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Virgin, yes, if you’re going to make me spell it out, but a gay one. I hold extensive knowledge on the subject, but I have yet to find the right… case… in which to put it all to use.” 

John thought about this for a moment. His eyes searched for answers on the ceiling and his teeth worked at his bottom lip. Twice his mouth opened but he quickly closed it again, deciding not to put a voice behind whatever thoughts were bouncing around in his brain. I stifled a snicker as his silence drew into an almost comical length. When he finally spoke, I was careful to wipe any mirth from my features.

“So, actually, you’ve never…”

“Nope,” I replied, popping the second syllable.

“…with anyone? Not once? Wow. The amount of willpower that must take, I can’t even imagine. I think I’d explode or go insane.”

A small snort escaped before I could suppress it. “Of course _you_ would. Fortunately, I have more important things to focus on. Namely, the work. I imagine it would be a dreadful distraction to become dependent upon others for such a basic release.”

“It can be used as a distraction, yes, but it’s certainly not dreadful. Finding someone to share an emotional – or sometimes merely physical – connection with is what makes us human, in my opinion. It’s not just about the release. It’s about finding someone to click with. Even if that experience turns out to be fleeting, there’s always that desire to find it again.” John turned to me, the corners of his mouth turned slightly downward. His eyes flitted between mine, studying, searching for something. “I don’t think we’re meant to be alone.”

The intensity of his gaze sparked something deep in the pit of my stomach and I sprang from the couch and strode across the room. My back to John, I found his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. “And have you found someone that clicks? Is Mel a ‘ _clicker’?_ ” My nose crinkled in disdain, my lip raised slightly in disgust. I shifted my eyes to study my own reflection. Odd. I hadn’t expected such a physical response to my inquiry. I pushed any implications aside and focused again on John. If he had noticed the reaction on my face, he didn’t let on. Instead, he studied the coffee table before him, his hands fiddling nervously in his lap. 

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s different with… him.” John stumbled over the unfamiliar pronoun. “I guess something shifted a while back, I’d just never realized it. It feels like I’ve found something that was missing, but I’d never been able to pin down exactly what that was.” John swiveled on the couch to get a view of the wall behind him. I turned to look at him and traced the curve of his profile with my eyes. He sighed and his shoulders slumped forward slightly. “I don’t think he’s exactly what I’m looking for, but I never thought any of them fit the puzzle perfectly, either. I can only stumble forward and do what feels right until I finally fall into that person.” 

He looked over his shoulder and his eyes made contact with mine. His gaze sliced into me again and my heart echoed loudly in my ears. I caught myself on the back of his chair as my knees threatened to give way. I attempted to lick my dry lips but found insufficient quantities of saliva and instead attempted to swallow the lump that suddenly appeared in my throat. I frantically struggled to reconcile the physical failings of my body against my mental convictions regarding the unnecessary allotment of time and energy to the defects of emotions. I was not successful.

Amidst my struggle, a seemingly unaware John screwed up his face in resolve, slapped his palms on his knees and pushed himself to a standing position. “Well, that’s been enough soul searching for one evening, I believe. Good night, Sherlock.” He scooped his laptop from the table before retreating up the stairs.

I listened to his footsteps recede and sank down into his chair. As I settled into the cushions, a series of smells enveloped me. John’s cologne. John’s shampoo. Even hints of John’s favorite tea. I breathed these all in deeply, my eyes squeezed shut. My hands reached out and caressed the fabric encasing the arms of the chair. The threads were worn thin where John’s hands would have rested, where he would have used the arms as an aid to get out of the plush confines. 

I thought of John stretched out in this chair, his head nestled into the headrest and I mimicked the position involuntarily. The scent was more potent here, concentrated from the repeated closeness of John. I sighed in contentment and felt the muscles in my body relax. My heart still beat in an erratic cadence, but softer now. My chin slowly fell to rest on my chest and I was helpless against the pull of sleep, cradled in the embrace of the chair and surrounded by the aroma of John. _John Watson,_ I thought, and summoned an image to the front of my mind. I drifted in a haze, studying and memorizing every detail comprising John. My final thought before completely succumbing to sleep was simply: _My John._


	3. Chapter 3

John’s muffled alarm clock jarred me from my slumber. My eyes flew open and I looked around in confusion. Pale, early morning sunlight filtered in through the windows at the front of the flat, illuminating the living room. I stretched my cramped muscles and wiped drool from my cheek and chin. The offending ruckus from upstairs ceased and I heard John's shuffling footsteps as he made his way around his bedroom. _John._ I propelled myself from his chair and looked guiltily around the room. I knew that he would descend the steps within the next forty-five seconds and my feet waffled on the floor as my brain and my legs tried to agree on my next course of action. Should I sprint to the bedroom and pretend to be asleep? I declined that option as he would surely hear my door close, if I even made it to the bedroom in time. Instead, I took two long strides to where my violin rested near the window and began to play.

John padded into the room. “That's a jaunty tune. Never heard you play that one before.” I drew out the note before lowering my instrument and turning to examine him. His striped pyjama bottoms were wrinkled and his white t-shirt was partially tucked into the left portion of the waistband. He pawed at his eyes in an effort to remove the sediments settled there. “Don't suppose you put the kettle on? No? I didn't expect as much.” He chuckled and retreated to the kitchen for his breakfast.

I observed John putter about the kitchen, setting the kettle, dropping bread into the toaster. When he ducked his head into the refrigerator, I took advantage of the limited privacy and tousled my hair back into some semblance of order and smoothed what wrinkles I could from my creased button-down. I checked the corners of my eyes for signs of sleep and moistened my lips. A butter knife clattered off the counter and onto the floor.

“Bollocks!” John shouted. I watched as he turned from me, bent at the waist, and retrieved the knife from its resting place. I stared at his raised bum for half a bewildered second before spinning on my heels and blinking furiously out the window at Baker Street.

I was still standing vigil at the window when John cleared his throat. I found him propped behind his chair, cup of tea in hand. “Thanks for, you know, for last night. Listening to me and all.” John absently picked at a cluster of threads on the headrest of the chair. He knit his brows together. “Odd, this part of the chair is damp...” He tilted his head back and searched the ceiling. “Don't think we have a leak, do you? Maybe I should let Mrs Hudson know, just in case.” The feet of the chair grated and groaned against the wood floor as he nudged it out of reach of any possible dripping from his imagined leak.

I clamped my mouth shut against the stuttering, confused mess threatening to escape. Before I could regain control over the faculties governing my speech, John continued. “I’ll be late getting in tonight. Got a date after work.”

“With _Mel?_ ” I cringed at the jealousy and vile riding just beneath those two words.

He made a sound of affirmation; his lips pressed together, the edges turned up in a small, secret smile. His head lilted in a meager nod, his eyes unfocused, pupils marginally larger than normal, even in the dimly lit living room. Attraction, adoration and wistfulness hugged his face and I suppressed a growl in my throat. _A growl?_ I would have to examine that reaction later. John didn’t seem to notice anything odd as he threw back the remainder of his tea and wiped his top lip with the back of his hand. I began formulating plans to observe said date as John busied himself with his morning routine. It wouldn't be spying, really. Just... friendly help. He's said he appreciated my listening to his struggle. Surely if I saw his interactions with Mel firsthand, I could be of help. No, it wouldn't be spying at all.

Later, when John had left for work, I hurried into my bedroom. I opened my wardrobe and lugged a heavy old trunk from its place at the bottom. It hit the floor with a thump, filling the air around it with a cloud of dust. I released each latch with a resounding and satisfying click and slowly raised the lid. I smiled to myself as I gazed down at the collection of vinyl, polyester and cotton. I carefully extracted each article of clothing and surrounded myself with an array of costumes and disguises. Police officer? No, that wouldn't do. Sailor? No. A dozen disguises followed and none was quite what I was looking for, until... _Oh._ I gathered the fabric and wig and carried it to my bed. There, I spread it out before me. _Perfect._

After a shower and an extensive and tedious shave, I once again stood before my selected costume in nothing but my pants. I picked up a small plastic pouch and perched on the edge of the bed. The sheer nylon slid easily over my freshly shaved legs. The top of the stocking was fitted to my upper thigh with a band of snug elastic. I repeated the process on my other leg. I struggled with the tiny hooks of the bra and tucked a reasonably sized pouch of stuffing into each cup. The soft purple dress slipped over my head and shoulders with ease. I swiveled my hips and experimented with the hang of the fabric. I left the shoes for last and grabbed the wig and small zippered bag before retreating to the bathroom for final touches. The long, auburn wig felt foreign against my collar bone where it grazed and tickled my exposed skin.

I put the bag on the vanity and searched my mind palace for the instructions on makeup application I'd filed away the last time I'd worn this outfit. Two years prior, I'd infiltrated an exclusively female drug cartel. They used woman's health charities as cover for their illegal operations and I'd attended one of their galas in disguise. When I'd found the right memories, I applied my cosmetics. I took a step away from the mirror and examined the finished product. Passable. Unfortunately, some gender markers are harder than others to disguise but, so long as no one studied me at length, it would do just fine. I slipped my stocking-clad feet into shoes matching the lilac hue of my dress. I took a few tentative steps to test my balance and listened as the short heels clacked along the wooden floor. I recited a few lines of prose, raising my voice an octave and cringed at how comical I sounded. I tried again with much more success. I nodded at myself in the mirror, satisfied.

I picked my way down the stairs. With six to go, I heard Mrs Hudson unlatch her door. I sighed. She toddled into the foyer.

“Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't know the boys had a client today. Sherlock must have put the bell in the fridge again.” She noticed my difficulty with the staircase and offered her hand. “There, there. Let me help you, dear. I know how hard it can be, whatever may be bothering you.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I didn't anticipate how tricky descending in these heels would be,” I stated in my normal timbre. She jumped at the sound of my voice and yanked her hand from my support. I stumbled down the last few steps, catching myself on the banister.

“Sherlock!” She shouted. “What in the heavens...”

I stood, impatiently, as she looked me over. She came in close, squinting at my hairline and makeup. She tittered and tutted, her brows knit together.

“It's for a case,” I drawled.

“Oh, oh. Of course it is. Yes,” she fiddled with the back of my dress, just above my bum. It was my turn to jump out of the way.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, my hand held defensively against my posterior.

She stepped behind me again and batted my hand out of the way. “Your bow is lopsided. You can't go out looking like a common street tramp, can you? Now, hold still.” She untied the ribbon, smoothed it along my waist and retied it in a snug bow, cinching the fabric tighter around me. “There,” she smiled at me, a twinkle in her eye, “now we can see that pretty waist of yours!” She winked and I rolled my eyes at her. I made for the door and she shouted from behind, “Shoulders back, Sherlock! No slouching!”

I slipped the key to the flat into the dainty purse draped over my shoulder and hailed a cab.

“Where to, ma'am?” The cabbie asked.

I gave him the address to John's clinic in my practiced pitch. He nodded, not questioning my guise. I smiled in satisfaction and crossed my legs politely, my fingers stroking absently at the silky nylon covering my knee. Yes, this should work out quite nicely, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got very excited when researching some canon disguises of Sherlock's and found that he dressed as a woman in The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone. I knew immediately that I had to use that! Stay tuned to see just how well that disguise works on John. As always, I'm a sucker for comments and kudos. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See End Notes for possible trigger warning.

The cab creaked to a stop near John's clinic twenty minutes before his shift was due to end. I asked the cabbie to park and wait where I had a clear view of the entrance, but out of sight enough not to draw attention. I retrieved my phone from my purse and pretended to fiddle with it so as to avoid unnecessary conversation and lessen the chance of breaking my disguise. I kept the corner of my vision trained on the walkway in front of the clinic. My eyes darted quickly to identify each movement, only to settle back on the screen of my phone in disappointment.

The fingers of my free hand traced along the bumps of my stocking-clad knee cap. Why was John still pursuing Mel? What does Mel offer to John that he doesn’t get from our friendship? Mel doesn’t take John to crime scenes or facilitate his adrenaline addiction. There’s no chance that Mel provides greater intellectual stimulation. Is it aesthetics? I thought back to my meeting with Mel in that coffee shop. He was quite striking, if one is into muscles and vanity and overly bleached teeth. Is that what John enjoyed? I pulled up an image of Mel in my mind and placed it next to the stored images of John’s ex-girlfriends. I shuffled through the women, one at a time. None projected society’s standard beauty conformities. Plain, low self-esteem, boring, unremarkable. None shone against the bravado that encapsulated Mel.

Was it prudent to compare the variable characteristics between the two genders? Were the traits John preferred in his female companions likely to directly correlate to those of his male? If this was an experiment relating to a murder, would I compare the elasticity of atrophied tendons to the viscosity of mucus membranes? No, not likely. I groaned aloud at the sheer frustration caused by the lack of data. I could compare the women to one another all day long, but that would be unlikely to garner me any insight into the solitary male specimen. Damn.

My feet began to sweat and I came to the conclusion that nylon stockings and vinyl shoes were a terrible combination. I idly fidgeted with the stretch of skin where my bra sat hotly against my chest and caught the cabbie peeking in the mirror. I sighed and surprised myself as I felt empathy for the world's female population. I was about to tell him off when I spied John's jumper in my peripheral vision. He ducked into a waiting cab, fifteen minutes before his shift was normally scheduled to conclude. He must have knocked off early for his date.

“Oh!” I said, my voice carefully pitched. “That cab, there. Follow it, please?”

He waited a moment and then set out after John's cab. We followed at a respectable pace as we weaved through London.

“Is this your boyfriend we’re following? He have another woman on the side?” he questioned, his eyes remaining locked on John’s cab, chasing it through the fading evening light. Thankfully he didn’t look back, because I’m not sure what kind of look would have been on my face. He must have taken my silence as confirmation of his hypothesis, because he nodded, his eyes sad.

Ten minutes later, we arrived at a restaurant. It was nice enough for a respectable date but inexpensive enough not to require an advance reservation. Good. I wouldn’t have to sneak in or create some additional ruse. I asked the cabbie to wait a moment. I watched John approach Mel and then studied Mel’s attire. His jeans were untailored, draping fashionably from his hips. Short sleeved button down untucked and unbuttoned to reveal the plain burgundy undershirt, muscular tanned forearms. Trainers, clean. They embraced and Mel planted a quick kiss on John’s lips. John looked down at his feet, cheeks red, and the toe of his shoe grinding against the pavement. They entered the restaurant and the cabbie looked back at me, frowning.

“Ah. Not his brother, I gather? Blind bugger, if you ask me. Go give ‘em hell, yeah?” He smiled broadly.

I hastily paid him with a generous tip and made my way through the double doors and informed the hostess of my party of one. I scanned the restaurant and amended my statement with a request to be seated near the window along the back wall. This would give me a suitable vantage point to observe visually and with any luck, aurally.

My one-inch heels clicked above the din of the patrons as we traversed the restaurant floor. Seated, I glanced idly at my menu, selecting a random entree to push around on my plate, and began my surveillance. The couple was seated to my left and forward two tables, their bodies in profile to me. I glared over the top of my menu as Mel gently brushed John’s hand away from the menu John had sprawled before him on the table. Mel pointed enthusiastically at an item. The contact of their skin churned my stomach into a knot. I gritted my teeth and suppressed the urge to storm across the short distance and… and what? Topple Mel from his seat? Grab John by the arm and drag him back to the flat? I choked down my jealousy, the taste of it becoming more and more familiar, and tried to set my determination. Focus on the goal. Focus on the data.

I strained to hear their conversation above the sound of silverware against plates. Laughter erupted from a large grouping nearby and I shot them a disapproving glare, which was left completely unacknowledged. John and Mel seemed to have settled on what to order and were now deep in conversation. John gestured with his hand, nearly upsetting his water glass. Mel reached out and steadied it and John gave him a grateful smile. I frowned in frustration. The boisterous group finally settled down as a waiter appeared to take their orders and bits of John’s words filtered through the white noise.

“…don’t understand me… it’s not like that… Sherlock doesn’t…”

“Good evening, miss! My name is Brian…”

I growled and waived my hand at the waiter, my eyes focused on John’s lips, trying to make out the end of that sentence. The imbecile – what was his name? Brad? Barney? – swooped his head into my line of sight, obscuring John’s face from my vision. I glared at him and he swallowed deeply. He frowned and I watched as his subconscious picked up on the gender markers my disguise failed to hide. Confusion clouded his eyes for a moment before he shook his head slightly and regained his composure.

“Ma’am, what can I get you to drink this evening?” he queried, his voice unsure.

“Water is fine,” I replied gruffly, not bothering to mask the baritone of my words. I figured if I kept him confused, he might just _go away._ I smiled in satisfaction as he looked from my eyes to my water glass, back to my eyes and then down to my Adam’s apple. His mouth was slightly agape as he raced to form a thought through his panic.

“Now, _scoot_ ,” I said, my voice returned to that of my disguise, higher and lilting. He nodded and disappeared, grateful for the dismissal.

John and Mel were quiet now, and they appeared to be slightly uncomfortable. What had I missed? A man walked past their table, and I observed John’s eyes slide over his form. The corner of John’s mouth turned up slightly and lechery flashed across his features. I directed my gaze to the passing man. Tall, slender, a crisp blue button down tucked into snug black pants, pale skin revealed at his neck and hands. Fascinating. John was clearly displaying attraction to this man.

I arranged the new data and aligned the man’s traits against those of Mel. Tall versus average height. Pale skin to tan. Slim build to toned and muscular. Drastically different choices in attire. They were different in every category, their only similarity being their gender. Fascinating, indeed, but also frustrating. I now possessed two samples from the study group, but being unable to derive any common traits, I was left as clueless as before. Well, perhaps not. I could now say with some degree of confidence that John’s attraction to men was not limited solely to Mel. Useful.

Their waiter reappeared and any remaining tension between John and Mel seemed to dissipate as they discussed the varying qualities of their individual meals. Mel offered John a forkful of whatever was on Mel’s plate. I gagged and turned away as Mel extended the fork and John leaned forward to receive the offering.

I turned back around to find that my annoying waiter had returned. He approached the table, clearly nervous. As he steeled himself to speak, his hand grazed my water glass and sent it tumbling. Water and ice cascaded over the edge of the table, pooling in the lap of my dress. I jumped up, sending my chair tumbling to the ground behind me and ice cubes clattering to the tiles around my feet. Before I could think better of it, I was bellowing, “You _idiot!_ ”

“Sherlock?” I heard my name and snapped my head towards the sound. I quickly realized my mistake as John’s eyes narrowed and he looked me over. His hands clenched into fists where they rested at his sides. “What…” he began, struggling to keep his voice low and calm, “Are you doing here? And why are you wearing that?”

“I’m undercover,” I tried to laugh, to ease the tension. It failed. John continued to glare at me and Mel stood with his mouth open, unable to process everything happening around him.

John turned to Mel and said calmly, “Please excuse me, but I need to take my dear flatmate home and beat him senseless.” Mel nodded, still a bit slow on the uptake. John threw a wad of money onto the table. When he turned back to me, I could see fire burning behind his eyes. He took measured, even steps towards me and when he drew near, I could hear his breathing as he struggled to stay composed while the entire population of the restaurant stared at us. He grabbed me roughly by the arm and my heart pounded in my ears.

“I think we should go home,” he stated flatly. I snagged my purse from the table as he propelled me towards the door at a hurried pace. Once outside, he dragged me faster towards the street. I struggled to keep my feet beneath me and one of my heels flew from my foot.

“My shoe…” I started to protest.

“I don’t care about your bloody shoe,” he replied, a bit of a growl to his voice.

I limped behind him and tried to adjust my gait to accommodate for my missing shoe. When we reached the street, I assumed we’d stop to hail and cab. Instead, John dragged me down the sidewalk, through the shadows cast by the streetlamps. We rounded the corner of the building and he pulled me into the darkened alley. He pushed me against the brick wall. I opened my mouth to protest, apologize, perhaps yell for help, but he stifled any words from escaping as he pressed his mouth to mine and kissed me roughly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild Dub/Con at end of chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

John broke off the kiss and stepped back, his face hidden in the shadow of the alleyway. I panted and tried to regain my composure, a difficult thing to do in a wet dress, off balance, and with the brick of the wall still digging uncomfortably into my back. John's labored breathing mirrored my own, sounding through the relative silence which encased us in our hidden world. I gaped at him and brought the fingertips of one hand up to my lips. I could still feel his mouth on mine, angry and passionate.

John turned to leave and I caught him by the sleeve of his jumper. He began to protest and I cut off his words. I worked my lips against his and John’s arms encircled my waist. He smelled of cologne and garlic and _John_. I smiled and pulled him in closer. He brought a hand to the back of my neck and pulled me down to increase his leverage in our kiss. His fingers caught in my wig and I gasped slightly as it detached from my head, most likely taking some of my own hair with it. I was about to protest about the pain, but John wove his fingers into my hair, freeing the matted curls. I pressed my head to his hand and sighed into his mouth.

This carried on for… well, I frankly lost track of the time. The anger of our contact ebbed away and was replaced with yearning, strong and steady. John’s fingers made their way to the hem of my dress and his eyes lit with surprise as he traced along the elastic at the top of my stocking. I ground against him as the flat of his palm continued upward and the tips of his fingers worked their way beneath the edge of my pants and his hand cupped my arse.

“Take me home?” I whispered, breathlessly.

John nuzzled his head into my chest and his hand retreated from beneath my dress. He took a few steadying breaths before nodding. I removed my one remaining shoe, examined it, and tossed it into the darkness at the back of the alleyway. I clasped my hand to his and we picked our way back to the street where we hailed a cab. The cabbie did a double take at my assumedly disheveled appearance. I shrugged at him and took my place on the bench seat next to John.

“Baker Street. Two-two-one,” I instructed the cabbie, not bothering to disguise my voice as my ensemble was now in ruins, my wig discarded in the alleyway along with my orphaned shoe.

The ride to Baker Street was tense. John’s hand found its way beneath my skirt again and he spent the majority of our journey caressing the nylon covering my knee and thigh, to my surprised satisfaction. John looked up into my eyes after noticing the tent my arousal had formed in the fabric pooled in my lap. The desire I found in his gaze made my breathing falter and my cock strain even harder.

The cabbie pulled to an abrupt stop in front of our flat. He carefully avoided looking at us as we clambered out of the vehicle. I opened my little purse, extracted a couple of bills, and leaned into the open window. When he made eye contact with me, I extended the money to him with a sly wink. He pulled away as soon as I stood back.

John was waiting for me on the stoop. As I approached, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. He stepped back so that I could enter first. I burst into the foyer and was greeted by Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, how did your little… investigation… go? Just look at the state of your dress…” she trailed off as John rushed in behind me, nearly bowling me over, his arm snaking around my waist. She took him in with wide eyes. “Oh, John. Goodness, me…” she cocked her head back towards her front door. “I think I hear the phone. Yes, my phone must be ringing…” She blushed and turned to bustle back into her flat.

“What must she think, now?” John said, gaping at me. I shrugged.

“She thought we were shagging from the day you moved in. Now she’s just got the confirmation.”

“You sounds pretty confident, there. You assume that we’re going upstairs to shag, eh?”

I nodded. “I can deduce your intentions based solely on your pupil dilation and rapid heart rate, not to mention your preoccupation with my nylon stockings on the ride home. When I combine that with the supporting evidence…” before I could finish regaling him with the conclusion of my diagnosis, John pulled me against him and his tongue intertwined with mine. We broke apart, panting, and he took my hand and dragged me up the stairs.

With the door latched behind us, his eyes narrowed. “Why were you spying on me tonight?”

“Well, for data collection…” I began. He guided me until my back was against the wall. “I thought that I could observe…” he nipped at the skin on my neck and I drew in a shaky breath. “You and that man…” he raised onto his tip toes and his tongue slid into my ear. I shivered. “ _Mel._ I wanted to provide you with clarification on your perceived…” John’s hand cupped me through my dress. “Sexuality,” I breathed and felt my knees threaten to give way.

“No,” he said bluntly, shaking his head. “You spied on me because you were jealous.” He aligned his body to mine and ground his hips. We let out simultaneous gasps. “It drove you crazy to think of me with a man…” Another grind. “A man that wasn’t you. Perhaps you thought you could doll yourself up with a little make up, a wig, and I wouldn’t think anything of it. You were wrong. I think a lot of it.”

John positioned my arms above my head and slowly worked up my dress. I contorted to help free myself from its confines and I was soon standing in our living room in nothing but my pants, bra and stockings. John stepped back and looked me over. My left breast received an experimental squeeze. He gave a slight shrug before reaching behind me and deftly undoing the tiny hooks. With the release of the tension, the pouches of stuffing tumbled to the floor and John kicked them aside, tossing the bra after them. He ran a thumb over my cock through the fabric of my pants and I struggled not to come undone.

“To be honest, I expected knickers. Something in satin or silk… mmm… or lace. However, this works quite nicely.” John drew a finger along the piping, tracing the lines of my pants. I pushed against him, involuntarily.

“L-Lace on the s-stockings…” I managed to stutter.

John dropped down to his knees before me. He planted light kisses on the lace securing my stockings before trailing across the exposed skin of my upper thigh. He mouthed at my encased cock, his saliva mixing with the pre-ejaculate forming near the tip.

_John’s mouth is on my penis!_ I thought, in a panic. Desperately, I tried to analyze the pros and cons of what we were about to do. Pro: John’s mouth felt amazing. Con: What would this do to our friendship? Could we carry on as friends? Lovers? I was beginning to compile a list of historical examples of relationships gone awry when John hooked his fingers into the band of my pants and deftly slid them down to my knees. My prick bobbled once, twice, three times before coming to a rest, fully extended and hard, just before John’s mouth.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot the past few weeks. Let me know if you get too close. I don’t want you to come just yet. I have… other plans.”

John steadied the base of my cock with his hand and gave the tip a tentative lick. As he wrapped his lips around my glans and sank slowly down the length, I swore and wove my fingers into my hair, my back arching off of the wall. It only took an embarrassingly short moment before I was pushing John off, gasping. He sat back on his heels and smiled.

“It’s true, then. I either give one hell of a blow job, or you really are a virgin.”

“B-Both,” I croaked.

“Well, then,” John crooned. “What would you like to do tonight?”

I thought about that. Off hand, I wanted everything, but I knew I had to be practical. If we were to only have tonight (because, after all, there had been no discussion of tomorrow or next week or next month…) would I be satisfied with a blow job?

“I want you to fuck me,” I whispered.

“What was that? You want me to what?” John said with a twisted grin.

“Fuck me, please,” I declared with a note of pleading.

We rushed off to my bedroom, John shedding his clothing along the way. He entered the room just seconds after me and I stared at his now naked body. I swallowed deeply, my eyes glued to his cock.

“Lube?” he asked. The fire had left his voice, replaced now with a touch of apprehension. He scanned the room, his lips pressed in a thin line.

I nodded, eyes still glued to the marvelous specimen between John’s legs. I waved a hand towards the little table next to the bed. He opened the drawer and blinked in surprise. He held up the contents of the drawer for my examination: a black anal plug and an impressive purple dildo.

I smiled sheepishly. “I did tell you I had done my research.”

John nodded and stared at the toys a moment longer before exchanging them for the lube he’d originally sought. He also retrieved one of the condoms I had stored some time ago, in a rare moment of optimism.

“So, you’ve… in your…?” John struggled.

“Yes, I have masturbated with those objects. They have been in my arse. Really, John, I thought that would be obvious,” I bit off the ‘even to you’ portion of that sentence. Knowing John, he would perceive that remark as insolent and might rescind his offer to have sex with me. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my restraint.

John appeared to be off balance. The confidence and passion he’d possessed before sucking my cock had faltered. I needed to do something to rekindle the fire, to bring that version of John back to the surface. I could… _yes!_ I gave John a smirk, moved to stand a few feet in front of him, and bent at the waist, my knees locked and legs straight. I fussed with my stockings, adjusting and readjusting the material until I heard the bottle of lube clatter to the floor. Suddenly, John’s hands were on my hips and his cock was pressing insistently into the cleft of my arse. I wiggled teasingly against him and he drew in a ragged breath. I straightened myself and leaned my back against his chest. He nibbled at my shoulder blades as we swayed and ground ourselves together.

“On the bed. On your back,” John commanded. A delightful shiver worked its way down my back as I rushed to comply. He retrieved the discarded bottle and condom from their resting place on the floor and joined me on the bed. He guided my legs into the air, folding me in two and exposing my arse for easy access. He supported both of my legs with one forearm while the lubricated fingers of his other hand began to caress the pucker at my entrance. My head lulled back onto the pillows as he slid one and then two fingers in, working me open.

“Ready?”

“God, yes,” I moaned and ground my hips against his hand. I began to calculate the impending pressure, friction and anticipated differences between John’s flesh and blood penis and my silicon dildo.

“Stop it,” he said, shaking his head. “Stop thinking. Stop deducing.”

“You know it’s not as simple as that, John.”

“Well, maybe this will help.” John lined himself up and slowly pushed in, breaching my body with his. He didn’t stop until I felt his bollocks, warm against the skin of my arse. John brought my legs up to rest my calves on his shoulders. He dragged his nose and cheek against the nylon and smiled. He snagged at one of the tears with his teeth and yanked. His hips began to move, slowly, as he tore the stocking open, revealing my shorn leg beneath. He planted a kiss on the smooth skin of my calf before increasing the tempo of his thrusting.

John folded me in half again, this time with the weight of his body as he drove into me. The change in position angled his cock just right… and _yes! There!_ I shouted in pleasure as he brushed my prostate on nearly every stroke.

“John! Oh, John, I’m going to… ngh… come…”

“Yes,” he moaned. “Yes, come for me, Sherlock!” He snapped his hips forcefully, one, two, three more times and I was coming. I squeezed his cock inside me as I rode out my orgasm. John’s muscles twitched as he made small, erratic thrusts as he navigated his own climax. He stilled and his arms gave way. He collapsed onto my chest, smearing my come between us both. I captured his lips in a long, slow kiss.

“We’d best get cleaned up before we get stuck like this,” he chuckled. John rolled off of me and stretched after he stood up. I yawned and let my eyelids droop. He returned a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. “So, was that an effective method for turning off that giant brain of yours?”

I opened my mouth to protest that the physical size of a brain had very little to do with the intelligence of said brain, but decided against it. Where was this sudden influx of verbal filtering coming from? I batted that thought aside. I simply nodded at John. He crawled onto the bed and wiped at the mess on my chest.

“I believe that the standard post-coital protocol is cuddling. Will that be satisfactory for you?” I opened my arms to indicate my readiness. John chuckled, finished his cleaning, and settled into my embrace. His cheek was warm against my chest and he stroked his hand across my stomach. The rhythm soon coaxed us both to sleep.

The next morning, I awoke alone in my bed, the duvet tucked comfortably around me. I yawned and stretched and sat up to look for John. I frowned at the empty room before the bright red package caught my eye. On the table beside the bed was a small box, wrapped in expensive red paper and tied up with a shimmering white bow. I snagged the box from the table. There was no label, but I could only assume it was meant for me. I tore into the package and examined the contents with a smile. Inside, I found a note written in John’s scrawling script that read, ‘For tonight…’ Beneath the note lay a pair of purple satin knickers with black lace trim around the waist and legs and a pair of thigh-high black fishnet stockings.

“Why, Mr Watson, I do believe we’ve found your kink,” I declared to the empty room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's where it ends for now. I may re-visit this story, perhaps to wrap up the "Mel Element"... "Melement?" Sorry, I couldn't resist that lame word smoosh. If you enjoyed this little journey, please leave me a comment. Be sure to bookmark this, just in case Mel decides to pop back up, perhaps to stake his claim to John. Thanks again, everyone! :)


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